


Sleep.

by Scorpius



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-29
Updated: 2011-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:45:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scorpius/pseuds/Scorpius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur struggles, Eames sleeps. Suddenly, sex happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> For so many, many years I’ve read slash fanfiction of various characters of various worlds—and this is the ONLY universe that I wanted to try my hand at! I may continue writing, don’t know. This piece of ‘sex’ happened when my internet went down for three days and I was seriously going through an Arthur/Eames craving, and that particular craving demanded erotic angst of some sort. Basically, sex. Lol.
> 
> So. Yeah. First story, errors all my own and usual disclaimer; the Inception universe and all its minuteness do not belong to me, infinity. Would love a beta, thanks :D

He couldn't sleep. He slowly craned his head toward the clock at the side of the hotel bed and winced. Three hours had already passed since he'd showered and promptly landed face down on the bed, exhausted and heavy with fatigue.

Probably didn't help that Eames was less than five feet away, lightly snoring (thank God), and it figured that he wouldn't be able to sleep with the forger around. He inwardly sighed.

Eames. Eames, who had waited until Arthur had settled under the blankets of the bed, before undressing (Arthur remembers hearing the rustling of fabric) and shutting off the light, crawling into his own single bed in the double suite.

Eames. Eames, who is probably naked under those sheets because one never returns to the original hotel for trivial personal belongings after a botched job, a city ago. Well... he couldn't care about that detail, right now. Not really.

He slowly shifted to face the wall, letting out a soft huff of air. Damn it.

He knew he should be concerned. Their chemist bolted the moment the moment Arthur had opened his eyes and said, “It’s fucked.” Their architect simply grabbed their notes and left, not bothering to even glance at the both of them as Arthur packed the Pasiv and Eames stood with his gun trained on the mark. Their client would no doubt hunt them down in the new few days, weeks.

He rubbed at his eyes, and glanced at the clock once more. Two minutes had passed.

Eames continued to snore.

He sighed. Eames, who trailed after Arthur in the dreamscape, unobtrusively touching him during the job, distracting and quiet and so sexy without trying in stupid cheap fabrics—he’d been the mark’s sister, who harbored a love for bright designs in 100 percent polyester. And when he’s turned back into himself in the dream, Eames still wore those fabrics in suit form.

God, he itched to move... the sad thing was, it never took much to become instantly hard, these days. It used to be that he would unashamedly masturbate or even pick up any pretty and willing thing for a few moments, when the urge struck-- it would tie him over until weeks or months later, the urge to find 'something' for relief returned full force: human touch, instinct. All that went to shit when Eames came along.

Arthur could catalogue every job he'd ever taken, and some that weren't even his own (The Cobbs) and list everyone in each particular job alphabetically and by dream rank. Ranks always changed as architects gave way to point men or extractors. Forgers, on the other hand, well... forgers were highly valued for their ability to speed things up, so to speak. But they were few and far in-between, and most forgers found it hard to grasp the concept of loyalty when there were always clients with the highest bid and so on. Most forgers were charismatic.

He couldn't bring up his first memory of Eames without a twinge of annoyance.

Yes, most people found Eames charismatic. They saw the exaggerated gestures, his slapdash heroics for the client, his daring improvising all the while looking exactly like every good girl's secret fantasy of a bad boy with a British accent.

He hadn't been impressed, of course; one dream-run sunny afternoon, after going over building layouts with an enthusiastic Dom, a pretty blonde projection snapping pink bubblegum walked up to him in the middle of their discussion and flatly told him that he was boring.

He'd shot the projection point blank, and looked over to find an exasperated Cobb.

"Jesus, Arthur. That was our forger."

They both woke up to a man casually lounging in an armchair pulled up beside the Pasiv device. There had been a ghost of a smirk when the man quietly gave his name. His body language seemed too open and lazy, which Arthur always pegged as a ready to fight stance.

"Heard all about you, Arthur."

"Mr. Eames."

Brushed him off, just another egotistical player for the money. Job went smooth-- smoother, and Cobb practically danced away singing the praises of the forger, saying, "Just imagine if Mal were here! She was the one who told me about him, she worked with him on that Johnson job--" and so on.

Arthur figured he wouldn't see the forger for a long, long while until weeks later, when Cobb arranged for a rendezvous, he arrived at an empty warehouse with a Pasiv in the middle of the room. Spying Cobb's jacket draped over a lawn chair, he relaxed and strode to the machine and prepared to hook himself up

He found himself in his usual dream layout, an office building with smartly dressed projections that appeared to be going about their daily lives: research, plan, assemble, and repeat.

"It is the knot on your tie that stops you from having fun?" a low voice murmured behind him.

Arthur had stood a bit more stiffly, briefly entertaining the thought that his subconscious was having him on.

"Mr. Eames."

They'd watched the projections mill about the office building for a few moments, until Arthur reached inside his jacket and brought out a glock. A glance over his shoulder showed a nonchalant Eames, hair neatly combed back and a few days of growth on his jawline.

"Going to shoot me?"

"If you want."

With that, the forger had pressed up his backside, warmth and danger. Inviting.

"I want you to."

"Since you asked—“

In one quick movement, with the arm holding his gun crossing his chest, he pulled his shoulder forward a bit and fired a shot behind him into what he knew would be Eames’s heart. He heard the man's fall, and something light touched the back of his shoes. Then he shot himself in the head.     

For the rest of the job, he pointedly ignored the man unless he had to deal with a bit of Eames' own research on the mark.

It was likely unnoticeable to anyone but him; the dark, almost calculating looks shot in way, as if sizing him up-- Arthur had refused to feel intimidated, especially by a man who couldn't properly dress himself. ‘It couldn't be lust’, Arthur thought. ‘Surely, he feels threatened by me, my skills.’ Yet there were glancing innuendoes and moments when Arthur couldn't help but try to send a subtle, reciprocal signal back, just in case. He wasn’t a blind man, without hormones and needs. The fact that it was a man—his first man, didn’t bother him; in their line of work, it wasn’t uncommon for casual or even permanent bonds to form based on simple attracted. The Cobbs were a textbook example of that. He never turned away if he caught Eames and his blue eyes, never pulled away if the forger leaned too close and whispered about Plan B into his ear, as though he were really talking about roughing Arthur against a nearby wall instead of a choking a deadly projection.

He wished he could find a way to bring this up to Dom, but his inner critic berated him for his lack of emotional professionalism. Even if things worked out for Dom and Mal, Dom might not approve of his choice. And maybe he was reading too much into Eames’s natural reaction to the environment around him. The man probably thought the waking world wanted into his horribly untailored trousers. Yet Arthur felt that he knew himself well enough to know when he was coloring the world a rosy hue. There was no way to dismiss the eerie feeling of being followed by eyes. Eames' grey eyes.

He shifted in frustration, listening to the minute tick of the alarm clock's internal mechanism. He could hear Eames breathing.

It was as if his body refused to acknowledge any other being in a sexual way. Cobb was starting to make jokes about Arthur being Vulcan, and Arthur had uneasily shrugged it off. No matter how he weighed out the pros and cons of his attraction to Eames, he knew it would be a matter of time before he slipped up and let himself become vulnerable—and vulnerability always meant a risk of being killed. A part of him knew it wasn't infatuation, this thing for Eames-not-even-his-real-name, can’t be trusted with plans because it was always about money. Hell, he'd been around the forger for over three years and that ‘thing’ never went away, always hungering.

God, he was still hard.

'I can do this. Just get it over with and go to sleep.'

Sighing, he slipped his hand inside his briefs and began to slowly stroke, tense with pleasure and more than a little taut with Eames still snoring behind him. Relaxing a bit, he closed his eyes and let himself get into it.

Eames, with his full, pink lips—wrapped around his cock. Eames, with intense eyes that bore into Arthur whenever he was explaining a new mark's subconscious—would it still be that intense as he came? Eames, with his vaguely flirtatious gestures and nuances (God, the man was arrogant), bad clothes and broad, sensuous back. Built like a bull.

Eames, who had once thrown Arthur off his game simply by winking at him in passing. After watching him leave the warehouse, he'd went straight into the warehouse’s only working washroom, locked it, and masturbated; somewhat ashamed, he'd snarled at Eames for the duration of the job. Leaving after everything was said and successfully done had felt empty.

He squeezed his cock, attempting to refocus on the memory of that wink and Eames strong, muscled arms. He knew there tattoos waiting to be memorized under those cheap jackets and dress shirts. His strokes quickened, breath leaving him in short, shuddering bursts. He could feel his legs trembling.

Eames, with his dirty blonde hair and wide, stubbled jawline. Eames, with his stupidly attractive accent and even more attractive sharp wit. Eames and his voice. That voice. He let out a soft moan.

Suddenly, Arthur found himself turned on his back, with Eames leaning over him, staring at him with dark eyes. Stunned, Arthur made no attempt to hide the erection in his hand, couldn’t control the twitch of his cock.

A beat passed, and then Eames was on him, enveloping his cock with that mouth and Arthur couldn’t swallow his loud and surprised cry fast enough. He could make out Eames murmuring, saying, "God, Arthur. God, God, God..." and taking him whole, moving to rest between Arthur’s thighs.

This is happening, Arthur dazedly thought in a mild panic. This isn’t a dream. For a long stretch of time, the sound of hurried gasps and wet sounds filled the room, occasionally interrupted by the distant traffic of an active night life.

As he sucked Arthur, Eames tugged on himself—so beautiful, and then Arthur knew he would take it, could take it. He pulled Eames up toward him, and then those lips were on him, wet and eager. It would hurt, he knew, but he couldn't do anything else.

Eames pulled back away to stare at Arthur for a moment, looking as if he was still stunned by what was happening. He couldn’t begin to imagine what his own expression looked like. He had to ask. He wanted it.

“I know you, Eames… do you trust me?”

At the man’s minute nod, Arthur leaned up and said, “Come in me.”

At that, Eames completely pulled back to kneel between his bent legs. He watched as the forger spat into his hand and began to slick his cock.

He wanted it, and then Eames was in, pounding into him and looking every inch the bull that Arthur's imagination sometimes made him out to be. Wide shoulders loomed over him, pillar-like arms on either side of him. Arthur panted, heart in throat. Above him, Eames looked wrecked, hair askew and gaze fastened on his own surely broken expression.

Arthur keened; he was coming, legs tensing up with every pulse, and then it was Eames, with an unexpected low, groan. Up until then, he'd been amazingly silent.

Eames slowly slid out of him, and Arthur could feel the sheet beneath him slowly become damp. Eames was giving him that same dark gaze-- and Arthur could only stare back, chest slightly heaving.

He broke the silence with a soft, "Eames."

The forger seemed to come to, snapping out of whatever reverie he'd been in; he was still leaning over Arthur, large and sweaty chest pressed against Arthur's own slender but toned chest. Without breaking eye contact, Eames leaned toward the nightstand between the single beds and quietly slapped his hand down on the surface. When he brought his hand back, it held a poker chip.

Eames slowly examined it, and Arthur sucked his breath in, uncertain. Eames spoke.

"Was hoping it wasn't a dream. S'not, darling. So... I'll leave this up to you, yeah?"

Arthur stared at him, and then nodded. Eames quirked a small smile.

"Right. Let's go to sleep, Arthur."

Just like that, Eames slid off him and lay his massive body on Arthur's side, flinging a heavy arm and leg around him.

With Eames lightly snoring in his ear, he slept.


End file.
